Legend of the Shadowwalker
by RandomPerson164
Summary: Post-Alph Art. Tintin makes a narrow escape from an unexpected villain, and gets mixed up in another adventure before even setting foot in Marlinspike Hall. Who is the Shadowwalker, and what does he have to do with a girl's missing father and Tintin still breathing? R&R please! (It's the rewrite! Plot bugs should now be exterminated.)
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hey guys, welcome to the (rewrite of) my first Tintin fanfic! Now, if you're one of my long-time fans and readers, you already know that I'm rewriting this story on account of inconsistent plot and little description. That's fine, just read each newly-written chapter as I post it. If you're one of the Tintin fans who just said "Oh, this looks interesting" and have absolutely no idea what the heck I'm talking about, that's alright. I'm rewriting this story from my previous edition (which should be down by the time I publish this, so don't even think about reading ahead!). No matter who you are, I hope that you like Legend of the Shadowwalker: Second Edition, and feel free to tell me if you want anything added or removed! ~RP164  
PS: This chapter is longer than my chapters will usually will be. I just have to fit this long chain of events into one chapter. :)  
PPS: I said earlier that I would begin this in December. Well, I lied. I was having writer's block with chapter 4 of one of my other fanfics, so I decided to go ahead and write this. Two days for around 2,200 words of writing. I feel so accomplished. :D**

The Legend of the Shadowwalker

Prologue

"Get up! On your feet!"

It was barely past dawn. Cold, dim light shone through the tiny barred window from above the distant hills of Ischia, falling in streaks across the equally cold concrete floor. He'd had a restless night – after all, it was hard to sleep when your head is resting on a piece of rotted wood and the floor beneath you is relentlessly hard. He had only been awaken by the sound of the guard's rasping voice and the barely audible click of a gun's safety being turned off behind him.

The guard, however was having a wonderful time. He was very well rested and in a better mood than usual, even though his scowling face and indignant demeanor didn't show it at all. Normally, he would have been close to tearing his hear out by now – working with Akass had done something to him over the years, he decided. But then again, he didn't often have the chance to pull a gun on anyone.

"Get moving," the guard – who, for everyone's sakes, we will call Mr. Fiero De Santis of Empoli, Italy – growled to the ginger-haired prisoner. "It's time for you to be turned into a César..."

The teenager complied without question, and Mr. De Santis was pleased. Secretly, the man thought that this whole ordeal was crazy. His orders were to bring the kid to Akass, and leave him there to endure his torture; if he tried to escape, he was ordered to shoot. He didn't approve. This kid was the most famous reporter in all of Belgium. Certainly someone would notice if he suddenly…er, disappeared. But the man would do nearly anything for a few extra Liras - debt doesn't pay itself, after all, especially when it's for gambling - so he agreed. And his little deal looked to be paying off already.

-x-

In his mind, he thought as his wrists were bound behind him, only one thing was for sure: Tintin was scared. Sure, he had been shot at, chloroformed, kidnapped, exploited, and nearly killed time and time again, in nearly every corner of the world. The concept of possible death wasn't new to him at all. But this time, he seemed to be so close he could look right up Death's nose and inform him of his overgrown nose hairs. No one was in sight; not Snowy, or the Captain, or even the Thompsons. It was only himself and the man with his gun pressed into his back walking together into the dark abyss of the corridor ahead. Normally that wouldn't matter; every time it happened to him, someone was always on their way, barging in at the last second to save him. But this time, they were so close that he knew no one was coming. And the silence of the man told him that it was all over.

Something didn't seem right. Tintin didn't know how he knew it, but there was just something in the air, a tension that seemed to follow him as he was led through a dark hall to his presumable death. It might have been the years of reporting and exploring getting to his head all of a sudden, but he would've been sure that there was a third person in the hall if he actually saw someone.

De Santis noticed the reporter pause for just a moment, so he nudged him forward, the muzzle of the gun pressed firmly into his spine. He wasn't going to let this brat get in the way of his money, no matter what his conscience thought of the idea. "Move it!" He had absolutely no idea why he had stopped – _maybe he's afraid of the dark,_ he thought with a devious grin, considering actually asking this of the boy...

...Until his gun was ripped from his hand.

Dazed and confused, De Santis spun around, his hands instinctively balling into fists. However, nothing he could do would have prepared him for what he saw: his gun was hovering in midair, the handle hidden from view as if being held by a shadow, the muzzle aimed at the center of his head. Just beyond it, the face of his assailant – he wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes – was just a mask of Caucasian skin, only visible around the eyes, a ninja in the Near East. He stood silently, his mouth agape, unsure of how to respond until the shadow spoke.

"Don't move." The voice was unlike anything De Santis had ever heard: it was calm, the French accent flowing smoothly with its words, yet sounded deadlier than a striking cobra. The gun supposedly hanging in mid-air gestured to the bottom of the nearest concrete wall. "Sit, monsieur. If you speak, if you move, I put a bullet in your head."

Lost in the moment, De Santis couldn't think of anything else to do but sit.

-x-

Tintin felt the pressure of the gun on his spine disappear, he paused mid-step. He heard the voice and broke into a cold sweat. He knew they were being followed! But by who? He was just about to sit down when a hand clasped his shoulder. He looked at it; it had vanished into darkness. "Not you," the Frenchman spoke from behind him, the voice suddenly laced with sympathy. Tintin felt the binds around his wrists loosen, and he rubbed them gratefully. Before he could do anything more, something cold and hard was pressed into his right hand: a pistol.

"Take this," the Frenchman continued. "I have contacted help. They will be here momentarily. But for now, go down the hall. You will know what to do."

Tintin turned on his heel, desperate to get a good look at his savior. He wasn't sure how to process what he saw. Against the weak light coming from the other end of the corridor, the Frenchman was little more than a shadow, clothed in black from head to toe except for his eyes, an intense emerald green color. There was a certain look in those eyes that he couldn't identify, but it seemed to reflect quite a lot of experience in very limited time.

But then, he was gone. He simply vanished into the darkness, leaving the reporter alone with his thoughts.

Tintin took a moment to look down at the gun in his hand. It was strange, but he could have sworn that he'd seen those eyes before, somewhere in Brussels... Forget it. You have to get out of here. Clinging tightly to the gun's handle, he dashed down the hall, his heart going ninety miles an hour.

-x-

But that wasn't the only thing going ninety miles an hour.

There were two men in the black Sedan, with two trademarked bowler hats and mustaches flapping around in the wind. Any onlookers would have thought without a shadow of a doubt that they were twins – from their similar surnames to the same raw, determined look in their eyes. Just an hour ago, the two detectives were working on a case in Rome when a phone call from a certain Captain friend alerted them of a certain reporter in trouble in Ischia. They immediately dropped everything and ran out to save their friend (after tripping over everything they dropped, of course). Now, they were less than half an hour away from Akass's residence, a thought crossed their minds.

"What do you think is going on?" they asked each other, in unison.

Another thought crossed their minds: _Maybe we are twins._

-x-

"Oh, where is he?"

Akass was not happy. He anxiously paced the floor, casting annoyed glances at the equipment, walls, and people surrounding him. The room itself was dark and cold, the shabby white walls and stained concrete floor lit by naked bulbs dangling from the ceiling. It seemed very unlikely that such a prison-like complex could be hidden right under the noses of the snooty, rich Ischia, but there it was, no more than a meter beneath their feet.

Akass paused, then turned angrily to one of his men, a Chinese with small circular glasses. "I thought you sent De Santis to get the brat!"

The Chinese shook like a leaf at the accusation. He hated being approached like this. "I-I did, sir!"

Akass glared at him, fiddling with something in his pocket. "Then go get him! What are you standing around for?"

"Th-the polyester, sir!" The Chinese shot worried glances at Akass's pocket, desperately hoping that there wasn't a gun in there. "It needs to be-"

"Worry about that once we get the brat in here. Now go!"

Tintin heard every word of this brief conversation from a hiding place behind a crumbling wall. He glanced once around the corner, squinting in the bright light and silently surveying his surroundings. This situation was nothing new to Tintin, but he couldn't help but break into a sweat when Akass's man started toward him. He watched his every step, slowly shrinking back into a corner until...

_THUD._

The sound reverberated around the room, snapping everyone;s attention away from the Chinese and toward the corridor leading to the stairs.

_THUD._

There it was again, something hitting against the locked wooden door on the ground floor. Akass pulled a knife from his pocket and glared at every man in the room, silently telling them all to forget about their puny lives and get over there.

_THUD...CRACK! _Two identical men rocketed down from the newly-broken door and plummeted down the stairs, landing in a heap on the floor. Two bowler hats skidded across the floor away from them. "Police!"

Tintin jumped at the opportunity, leaping out from behind the wall and toward Akass, holding the gun confidently in front of him. "I wouldn't move, if I were you."

Akass jumped, not expecting anything from behind, and dropped the knife, the blade nearly slicing the toe of his right shoe. "You...!" he growled angrily. "Where did you come from?!"

Tintin simply smiled. "Brussels, originally."

-x-

"That was quite an amazing escape you made there, lad!"

It was 7 am, two hours after dawn and the thrilling conclusion to the Akass fiasco. Tintin, the Thompsons, and a less worried Captain Haddock were sitting around a large cherry-wood table in Akass's home, with Castafiore standing behind the Captain's chair. He didn't notice her come in; she had been quiet, for once, and that was how he preferred it.

Snowy, meanwhile, was sitting contentedly at Tintin's feet, glad to have his master back.

"Thank you, Captain," Tintin replied quietly, not wanting to sound full of himself. He turned his attention back to the Thompsons. "Do you know what was happening in there?"

"Well," Thomson began, glancing down at the paper containing the notes collected on the case, "like you discovered, the whole Alph-Art business was a front for large-scale forgeries of famous works of art. Akass was planning to sell he paintings and sculptures for small fortunes, and then bring Ramo Nash down with him if he got caught."

"The Chinese man you saw with Akass spilled everything to us," Thompson briefly explained. "As it turns out, he was working for Akass, who was in turn working for Rastapopoulos – who, surprisingly enough, lost his entire empire to Allan Thompson in a game of poker while he was in prison – and was working for Allan to try and get it back."

Thompson nodded in agreement. "To be precise, Akass was working for Allan with the Chinese, who was working for you and..." A blank look passed over his face, and he looked at his fellow detective. "...What was it again?"

Tintin, who could barely hold back a chuckle, smiled politely. "Thank you very much for your help, detectives. I think we should begin traveling back to Belgium, Captain."

"I agree, lad," the Captain replied, a yawn piercing his words half-way through his sentence. "Let's go before I pass out." He got up from his chair.

Tintin followed suit, thanking the Thompsons once again and saying one last farewell to Castafiore before heading out the door, Snowy trotting playfully at his heels. He suddenly stopped, right in the middle of the doorway, feeling a hard something in his pocket. Strange, he thought, I'm sure I didn't leave anything in there... He pulled out a small thick paper, roughly the size and shape of a business card, with three lines of writing inscribed on it:

SHADOWWALKER  
40 MOCKINGBIRD ROAD, BRUSSELS  
BAXTER'S

The Captain stopped walking and looked back at him. He was already stepping across the tarmac that led to the villa's gate. "What's the matter?"

For a second Tintin didn't looked up from the card, answering the Captain's question with a question."Do you mind if we make a stop in Brussels before we arrive in Moulinsart? I believe there's someone I need to meet.


	2. Chapter 1: Danger on Mockingbird Road

Chapter One – Danger on Mockingbird Road

_This must be it._

Tintin cut the engine of his motorbike and steadied himself on the asphalt, looking up at the building before him. It could have been described as unique; it seemed disconnected from the simple cream-colored apartments that lined _Rue de l'oiseau moqueur,_ and looked too bright and happy to be placed in this certain section of Brussels. Its large front window, rimmed with slightly-rusted iron trim, displayed a dozen or so tables and booths lined up perfectly within, with a bright red neon sign staining the words _Baxter's Café_ onto the shoulders of passing pedestrians.

There were few of course, since rush hour had long since passed and the only people left on this street were late shoppers and the occasional tourist. Tintin, certain that his bike would not be stolen if left unattended for a moment, stepped off of the bike and took a couple steps closer to the café's storefront, nearly running into a group of Swedish sightseers.

There wasn't much more to see: more tables and booths, with a few stray chairs strewn across the floor. A movement somewhere in the back caught his eye; a bar was pushed up against the far wall, gleaming in the dim light, and a lone figure was wiping it down after a presumably hard day at work. Whoever it was must have been distracted, because their gaze was away from the cloth in their hand and focused toward something just out of sight.

Tintin took a step toward the door and stopped. _Of course the café would be closed by now,_ he reminded himself. _It's almost eight in the evening. The owners – or whoever that is – probably wouldn't appreciate me being here..._ He put his train of thought on hold when the figure looked up. Now he could see that the figure was a girl, not even a year older than himself, with platinum blonde hair and deep emerald-green eyes. She sauntered across the large room, pushing aside a stray chair on her way. She opened the café's glass door and barely smiled.

"Can I help you, sir?" She had a distinct British accent, as if she had moved to Brussels from London just days ago. There was a certain tone in her voice that oozed self-confidence, as if she owned the place. She answered her question for him. "We're closed. If you want a drink, you've got to come back tomorrow."

"Oh, no," Tintin quickly responded. He was surprised and a little amused that someone so close to his age would call him 'sir.' "I don't want a drink. I'm looking for someone."

"Oh really?" The girl gazed at him curiously, then motioned him inside, stepping back from the doorway. "You can take a seat anywhere."

"Thank you." He sat uncomfortably on one of the hardwood stools that had been dragged up to the bar. Out of the corner of his eye, we saw Snowy peering quietly through the café's front window. The girl went around him, slipping in behind the bar and shoving something underneath. Her cloth lay forgotten on a nearby table.

"Who exactly are you looking for?" She leaned against the bar and She took a good long look at Tintin, silently sizing him up. "Have you been in the papers recently?"

"Yes. Several times, actually. I'm actually a reporter for _Le Petit Vingtième_."

"Your name's Tintin, right?" Again, the girl didn't give him time to answer her question. "I've read your articles before. From what I've heard, I'd have to say you're pretty lucky."

"Uh, thanks." Tintin smiled nervously, not exactly sure how to respond. "And you are...?"

"Oh, sorry." The girl smiled apologetically. "Elizabeth Baxter. Call me Ellie."

Tintin briefly shook her hand. "Like I had said earlier, I'm looking for a man."

"Is it for the press?"

"No. This is...er, personal business."

"Good. I never liked the press." Ellie didn't give him time to comment. "Do you have a name?"

Tintin, without a word, fished the card out of his pocket and set it on the bar, turning it around so that she could read it. He saw her scan it once, then twice.

"Shadowwalker." Ellie whispered the name just loud enough to be heard, as if she was saying her thoughts out loud. "I know that name."

"You do?" Inside, Tintin was almost giddy with excitement. Going into this, he didn't know if he'd actually find anyone who had any useful information for him. So far, so good. "What do you know about him?"

Ellie clicked her tongue once and glanced up at the ceiling, trying to recall the stories she had heard. "...The Shadowwalker is an ancient Brazilian mythological character of the Tapirapé tribes of the Amazonas, stories about him dating back hundreds and thousands of years. According to them, he was the one who gave their people dreams, and – more often than not – nightmares. Like his name suggests, he walked in the shadows just beyond sight, and had stayed there so long that he turned completely black from head to toe. The stories also say that he was granted immortality from their a shaman spirit for his sacrifice to the darkness."

Tintin soaked it all in, nodding every once in a while to indicate his listening. When Ellie finished her story, he gave himself a second to comprehend it. "But he was a real person," he said softly. "I _saw_ him. And he had a French accent, not a Brazilian one...How do you know all of this anyway?"

Ellie shrugged indifferently. "My father. He's an archaeologist specializing in South American civilizations. He's studied the Shadowwalker for quite some time. Apparently, there's a lost temple dedicated to the Shadowwalker somewhere around Japurá , Brazil. Not too long ago, he led a group of explorers out into the jungle to look for it." She stopped suddenly and suddenly found something under the bar quite interesting.

Tintin leaned forward in his chair in fascination. "What happened then?" One look at her sullen, now lusterless eyes told him. "Oh..."

"He's gone. Disappeared from his field group one day and never came back. He's probably dead in the middle of the Amazon by now." One of Ellie's hands balled into a fist, her fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palm. She closed her eyes, and in that moment composed herself. "You can have one of his maps of Brazil, if you'd like."

"Oh, I couldn't do that…"  
"It's fine. He has more than twenty. I'm sure he won't mind." Ellie chuckled humorlessly, then disappeared into a back room, emerging a second later with a rolled-up piece of paper tied with a fraying string.

Tintin gently took the paper from her and unrolled it across the bar, taking in the tiny towns that ringed the world-famous rainforest. He noticed one especially small dot nestled against the flow of the _Rio Amazonas_. Japurá. "Do you know what happened to the rest of the explorers that had traveled with your father?"

"They traveled back to Japurá when they couldn't find him," Ellie replied with a dejected sigh. "He knew the most about the mythical temple than anyone else in the party, so they couldn't keep going."

Warning bells went off in Tintin's head. It may have just been reporter's intuition, but he knew that something wasn't right with that statement. "...Who are they?"

Ellie grinned knowingly. "I think I know where this is going." She reached back behind the door frame that lead into the back room and grabbed a paper-filled basket, rummaging through it for a moment. "Ah! Here it is." She half-tore a single sheet from the tangle and handed it to him. "They're contact numbers. They should still be operational – the explorers rented a building in Japurá for working before and after the expedition."

Tintin took the paper and scanned it, then stuffed it into his coat pocket. He got to his feet and smiled warmly. "Well, I have to get going. Thank you for your time."

Ellie nodded in a your-welcome sort of way. "It's no trouble. By the way, if you ever decide to stop by one day, your drink's on me..." She paused, as if forgetting what she was going to say next. "...as long as none of this ends up in the newspapers."

"Don't worry about that," Tintin reassured, striding across the empty café and opening the heavy glass door before him.

As she watched him mount his motorbike and call his little white dog to his side, Ellie narrowed her eyes at his rather naïve response. She shook her head sadly and followed his bike until it disappeared down the street with a single rev of the engine. "If anyone needs to worry, it's you..."

**A/N: A word of warning to all of you, this may be my last update until December. However, for those of you who are already reading Scorpion, then I'll have two more chapters added during November, since I already did them. Ciao!**


	3. Chapter 2: Here We Go Again

**A/N: In case no one made this connection in the last chapter, it was loosely based off of Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark, that first scene with Indy and Marion. Yeah, I like old movies like that. Anyhow, on with the story!  
PS, The Inner Titan, this is all for you. :)**

**Chapter Two – Here We Go Again**

Marlinspike Hall was surprisingly quiet the next morning, Tintin had noticed when he woke up at the crack of dawn. The Captain would have usually been snoring, but that night he had slept soundly, the exhaustion and confusion of their latest mystery really taking a toll on him. He had fallen asleep the instant he laid down that night, silently giving thanks that their troubles were over and that he could finally relax.

Tintin gripped the paper in his hand a little tighter. It wasn't yet.

He was standing in the sitting room, staring out the front window at the perfectly manicured lawn. The massive emerald-green field stretched out as far as he could see, slipping under the trees ringing the property and past the stone border hiding the road from view. For a moment he forgot why he was standing there; but he remembered almost instantly, and hovered his hand over the telephone that had claimed its place on a small table beside the window. He unfolded the crushed paper in his hand and read off the string of numbers, punching them into the phone and holding the receiver to his ear.

The other end was silent for what felt like forever. Then... "Hello?"

The voice was that of a man, and had a accent that sounded a little strange to Tintin's ears: it was something like that of a rugged British one, but it was hard to determine over the phone. He sounded distant, as if he was doing something very important and wasn't even listening.

"Hello, is this..Anteros Bugiardo?" Tintin maneuvered the paper out of his reciever-holding hand and glanced at the name to make sure he had gotten it right.

"Yes, I am Anteros." The man seemed to be coming back to the conversation. Tintin guessed that he had put away whatever he had been previously doing. "Who is asking?"

"My name is Tintin. I'm a reporter, living in Brussels. I've heard about your –"

"Tintin?"

Tintin glanced back, pausing for only a second to see who had intruded on his conversation. Captain Haddock was standing in the doorway, a robe wrapped around him, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't appear angered or annoyed, as he usually did: the only look on his face was one of surprise, and a little bit of sleepiness. "You're up early, lad! What's the occasion?"

Tintin held a finger to his lips, implying for the Captain to quiet down, and continued his statement. "...your expedition, and I would like to know if I could join you."

"Expedition?" The Captain couldn't help but burst into the conversation.

"Who is that?" Anteros asked.

"Oh, it's no one." Tintin threw the Captain a sour glare. "Now, the expedition?"

Anteros was silent, and Tintin could just imagine him shaking his head for one reason or another. "You could, but I can't guarantee that you'll get a story out of it. Have you heard the story of Dr. Baxter, by any chance?"

"Why yes, actually. His daughter was the one who gave me your contact information." Tintin wasn't sure if it was the right thing to say, but he ignored his doubts when Anteros chuckled slightly.

"Good! So I won't have to explain it to you. I presume you have our base's address as well, the one in Japurá?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You can visit anytime that conveniences you, as long as you fly to Brasilia first. There are no direct flights to Japurá – not that I believe, anyway."

Tintin smiled warmly at the window, seeing his reflection in the glass, speckled with stray blades of grass. "Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to come soon." He set the receiver down and turned back around to face the Captain.

The Captain groaned inwardly. Here we go again. "What have you gotten yourself into this time, laddie?"

"Japurá ," Tintin stated, stuffing the paper into his pocket for later use. "Japurá, Brazil."

"Brazil? Blistering barnacles, Tintin! No!" The Captain nearly threw a fit right then and there, but he kept himself sort of calm. Of course, he had already heard about Tintin's meeting the daughter of a missing explorer, and of the unfinished expedition, but he had known from the very beginning that there was something fishy about it all. Being a retired merchant marine, and having the last name Haddock, he should know.

"Tintin, you can't just go wandering off onto some new adventure out of the blue! Thundering typhoons, just two days ago you were going to be turned into a statue! If it weren't for me, that's where you'd be right now. A lonely statue, sitting in a museum without anyone knowing what was inside." The Captain sat down in a chair facing Tintin and crossed his arms a little tighter. Now his expression was one of anger.

"If it wasn't for _me_," Tintin countered, narrowing his eyes in challenge "_you'd_ still be a drunken sailor captioning a vessel smuggling opium across the globe."

The Captain went silent. _Of course he had to bring _that_ up. Now all I need is a big bottle of whiskey. _It took him a minute to think of a legitimate comeback."...Well I'm not going with you, lad. We are not going on some wild goose chase in the middle of Brazil!"

Tintin's mouth drew into a narrow line, his face purposefully neutral. "You don't have to go, Captain. I'd be alright –"

"No!" The Captain banged his fist against the wooden arm of his chair, causing his knuckles a great deal of pain in the process. He barely held back a string of curses. "That's the final word on the subject! Ten thousand thundering typhoons..."

"That's fine with me," Tintin replied coolly, taking a step back from the wall and glancing once more at the Captain. The man's face was pinched up with anger, probably caused by the pain most of all. Ignoring this, Tintin stepped out of the room, but right when he turned out of the doorway he stopped and leaned casually against the wall. Five...four...three...two...one.

Right on time, with a defeated groan, the Captain hoisted himself out of his hair and dragged himself over to the doorway, popping his head out. "When do you need a ride to the airport?"

**A/N: Anyone who is actually reading this right now, please help me out here. The team of explorers that Ellie's father led will consist of 5 to 6 people, four of which you guys will get to decide! (Only 1 to 2 character ideas per person, please.) The two characters that will not be chosen are Anteros Bugiardo and Madeline India, the latter of which was offered to me by a fan of the _LotS_ version 1 (and who will hopefully find this and speak up so I can credit them). Anteros Bugiardo is all mine. :) The characters you guys decide should preferably be from all over the world, but that's not necessary. Make this fanfic better! Just put a short description of the guy (or girl...girls are good too) in your review or a PM to me, and I'll choose from what you guys send me!**

**I always need critique, so feel free to be harsh as long as it isn't along the lines of "you suck." Thanks for that :-)**


	4. Chapter 3: Airborne

**A/N: Alright, so I wrote another chapter today instead of doing the millions of other things I should be doing. But at this point, I don't really care.**

**Chapter Three – Airborne**

"Come on, Snowy. Our flight is about to leave."

The Brussels airport was, as always, lined with crowds preparing for flights to who-knows-where for reasons who-knows-why. Several languages floated through the air of the terminals, dominantly French, Flemish, and English, mixed in with a few other East and West European languages. Flights for England and France seemed to be popular that evening, though exactly why would probably never be known.

Tintin, dressed in his usual traveling garb of trench coat and matching newsboy cap, had been waiting patiently in the queue for the upcoming flight to Brasilia* for what he thought was around half an hour. Finally, the people in front of him began to move forward, and he turned back to look for his companion. He spotted the little white terrier trotting back towards him, the bone from a now nonexistent chicken wing held carefully in his jaws.

Tintin rolled his eyes slightly and picked up his bag off of the ground, taking the bone while he was leaning over. "Snowy, how many times must I tell you not to dig through others' trash?" He would have said more, but the mob behind him was starting to push forward as well. He just dropped the bone into a waste bin as he passed it and boarded the plane.

He scanned the rows of seats as he ambled down the center aisle, making his way to his own seat toward the back of the plane. There was probably no more than fifty people – besides himself, of course – on the plane, and no one seemed to stand out in any way. The majority of the passengers was made up of Brazilian-looking men and women, but there were a few Europeans aboard as well: a businessman with a suitcase at his feet, writing furiously on a yellow legal pad; a sleeping blonde-haired girl with a gray fedora pulled low over her face; a tired woman with an infant sleeping in her arms.

Tintin settled down in his seat a couple of rows behind the businessman and placed his own suitcase in the seat beside him, Snowy curling up happily at his feet. He dug the map that the Baxter girl had given him and surveyed it once again, barely noticing the tiny town of Japurá nestled along a bend in the _Rio Amazonas. _He thought back to the expedition, and how they had placed their base of operations there rather than in a larger city. It must have taken them a while to get there. "Remarkable..."

Snowy growled quietly, flattening his ears and slinking forward so that he was standing beside his master's feet in a protective gesture. He was facing the front of the plane, toward the cockpit, and when someone in front of them moved, he growled slightly louder.

Tintin smiled faintly, reaching down to scratch the dog behind the ears. Snowy stopped growling when he did so, but still didn't keep his eyes off of whatever he was looking at. "Don't worry, Snowy; we'll be arriving in Brasilia before you know it."

_Maybe no one will even try to kill me this time, _Tintin thought to himself, and smiled amusedly. _That would make this trip even better._

-x-

The curtain separating the cockpit from the cabin shook slightly as it was drawn back, forming a tiny hole between the wall and the curtain's edge barely large enough for one brown eye to peer out and observe the passengers from.

"Who is it?" The hushed voice was that of a man with a Brazilian accent, the whisper barely coherent over the blast of the engines.

The pilot of the plane, sitting disinterestedly in his chair waiting for the control tower's approval to take off, removed a paper from his pocket and read the inscription off to the Brazilian man, speaking in an American Midwest accent. "Teenager. Ginger hair. Probably got a little white dog with him."

"Him?" The Brazilian laughed, carefully keeping his voice quiet. "That's _i__mpossível_ – impossible!

The American, with a muffled irritated groan, got up from his seat and pushed his co-pilot out of the way, looking out from behind the curtain himself. "Yep, that's him. He's that annoying little Belgian reporter, the one who busted that Rastapopoulos guy a week or so ago. Name's Tintin."

The Brazilian shook his head, snatching the paper out of the pilot's hands and comparing the description with the young man himself with swift jerks of the head. "No. _Não. Isso não é possível_!" He started murmuring to himself in Portuguese, letting himself ramble. "_Não há maneira de o garoto poderia ter feito nada! Basta olhar para ele_!"

The pilot, who was fortunate enough to know some Portuguese, let him ramble. "Ignore how he looks. That kid's probably two times stronger and ten times smarter than you." If the Brazilian co-pilot was offended by that, the pilot didn't notice, and continued with his speech. "Busting up crime rings and tracking down smugglers are what he does every day. I've seen his name at least once in nearly every newspaper across Europe, and even a few in America. And most of them he didn't even write."

The Brazilian crossed his arms. "Of course, I don't know about this. I'm only the person who never hears about news until it's years old. But I must admit," he added with a contemplative pause, "I can't wait to see what he's got."

"Damiãno, go and send a message to Casa de Ladrões. Tell them that's it's a code blue: Belgium, 5469E. They've been expecting this for quite some time."

The Brazilian simply nodded, putting on his headset and sitting down in the co-pilot's chair.

The American followed suit, only waiting for another moment before they were given the all-clear. "Finally. Let's get this bird off the ground."

**A/N: A fellow Brazilian Fanfictionite friend of mine, ****Dr. Mois****, is helping me out with LotS this go around, so that I can be more accurate with my descriptions of Brazil (****a country which I have never actually gone to). So thanks in advance, DM! :) (By the way, if any other Fanfictionites out there need help with anthing Brazilian, talk to DM about it. He/she will help straighten you out.)  
PS: Yes, I now refer to the members of this fanfiction-writing community as Fanfictionites. There is nothing wrong with that.**


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